


Black Tie

by 14CombatGeishas



Series: Misadventures of the SI-5's Best Agents [2]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Jacobi POV, Kepler POV, Maxwell POV, Mission Fic, Prosthesis, SI-5, mentions of child abuse, study in character relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 21:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14CombatGeishas/pseuds/14CombatGeishas
Summary: Two months after the mission that cost Jacobi his arm he's back in the field.  He, Maxwell, and Kepler are going undercover at a black tie event to help Cutter with a little corporate espionage.  Jacobi and Maxwell are less than pleased with the arrangement.Plus: fancy everything, two kicked puppies, caviar tartlets, a dysfunctional family, a goddamn adult, underhanded affection, homemade HMX, a grenade rack, and Hell Shoes.





	1. Warren Kepler

**Author's Note:**

> [This is in the series of W359 fics I’ve written previously about the SI-5.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/627383) You should be able to read the fic without reading anything in the series, although the events referenced are those of [I’m Your Savior](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8716171/chapters/19982728) just in case you want to read it.

The day before Faraday Technologies’ celebration, Mr. Cutter called Warren Kepler into his huge, high office. The Major assumed it was for a mission briefing and, of course, his suspicion proved correct. But then, there were only so many reasons Cutter asked to see anyone: to hand down a mission briefing or for something much more important and much more terrifying.  

Cutter’s office was bright and modern, decorated in stark blacks and whites.  A zen garden sat immaculate on his desk. Bamboo grew in a pot in the sunlight. An operatic score played from the only old item in the room, a record player from the 1970s or so, the music coming through a sculptural Bang & Olufsen audio system.  Everything was, as always, spotless. Cutter sat behind his desk, glancing up almost boredly from his computer as Kepler entered.

“Good afternoon, Warren, how has your day been?” Cutter asked brightly.  

Outside the sun shone down on Goddard Futuristics’ main complex.  Cutter could see all of it from up here, a king surveying his kingdom.  The buildings matched Cutter’s aesthetic.  New, sparkling, geometric, their glass windows and domes sparkled in the Florida sunshine.  The sky was cloudless and blue; a perfect day in mid-September.  

“Just fine, sir. And yours?”  Kepler answered, at attention, cap in hand, ever the soldier.  

“Oh, peachy,” he answered.  “Now, as much as I love small talk, I want to get down to brass tacks.  I don’t know if you heard the latest from Faraday Technologies…” he trailed off watching Kepler, waiting for him to provide his response. 

“Their new tablet?  Yes, sir. Nothing compared to ours,” Kepler responded. 

“Obviously it isn’t!” laughed Cutter.  “But David is still very proud of himself. He’s throwing some fancy get-together tomorrow night to celebrate.   _ Very _ important, everyone who’s anyone will be there, you know how these things go.”  Cutter rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’ve been invited, of course.” 

“Of course, sir,” said Kepler.

“But there’s more to this party than their silly little tablet,” he sighed.  “David’s complicating things.”  David was David Baker, the president of Faraday Technologies.  Faraday was one of Goddard Futuristics’ few rivals.  They were not as powerful or as influential, but they were one of the few companies even playing in the same league as Goddard. “It’s like the man doesn’t know what's good for him.  I have agents embedded in Faraday. You have to keep your eye on the competition, don’t you?” 

“Absolutely,” Kepler supplied. 

“Well,” sighed Cutter, “they’ve turned up some  _ interesting _ information.  It seems David’s trying his hand at artificial intelligence.  Sentience.  We can’t have that.” 

“No, sir!” agreed Kepler.  GF had been all but the monopoly on sentience for years now. They were the company that did it first and the company that did it best.  Faraday must have had its own version of Alana Maxwell if Cutter had any concern about them whatsoever.

“Luckily they haven't built a prototype...yet. But I would like to stop that from happening.  Head them off at the pass.  You know what I mean?” 

“Sabotage.” 

“To put it bluntly,” grinned Cutter.  “So tomorrow night I think I should bring some…friends.  Some backup.”  He took three folders from his desk drawer.  He passed them to Kepler. _Kepler, W.,_ _Top Secret, Classified.  Jacobi, D., Top Secret, Classified.  Maxwell, A., Top Secret, Classified._  Each _Top Secret_ was stamped in threatening red and _Classified_ in ominous black. Kepler opened his folder. An invitation was pinned to the top of the page. It was addressed to a new alias, Steven Newton.  He knew inside the other two folders would be aliases for Jacobi and Maxwell.  He glanced, Rose Curie and Henry Mendeleev.  All three had NASA IDs for them to stash in their wallets.  

“David is honored to have NASA engineers in attendance.”

“The honor is all ours,” Kepler answered with his charming smile. 

“Now, here’s what I need you three to do.  You’ll be directing your operatives.  Alana will hack into David’s database and steal the plans. Don’t worry – her copy of the floor plan highlights the best route – then she’ll erase all copies of the files but ours, and once Alana is done, Daniel…well, Daniel will do what he does best.” 

“He’ll be thrilled, sir,” Kepler assured him, closing the folder. 

“I know he will.”  There was a pause, but Kepler knew better than to interrupt or try to figure out what Cutter was about to say.  “One last rule. We can’t be seen together.  Not even  _ near  _ each other.  The party will be big enough that it won't be a problem, but if you don’t follow that order and I see even a  flicker of any of you out of the corner of my eye I will be upset.   _ Very  _ upset.  And when I get upset, I get creative.  Am I clear?”  His eyes flashed dangerously, trained unblinkingly on Kepler’s.

“More than crystal, sir,” he replied. 

“Excellent!  You’ll want to tell Alana and Daniel before they make plans for tomorrow night!” Cutter said.  He didn’t rise to show Kepler to the door, he just turned his strangely spider-like Wegner Swivel Chair back to his PC.  Kepler showed himself out and traversed back to his own office many floors below.  

Jacobi and Maxwell were in her lab when Kepler had Eunomia, the lab’s AI assistant, call them to his office.  He wasn’t surprised.  It was during their lunch break, which Kepler knew they always took together.  He also knew Maxwell was showing Jacobi the work she had been doing on the latest iteration of Jacobi's new robotic arm – dubbed “Rocobi” of all damn things – version 2.0. 

Kepler kept up on the progress.  All phases of it behind Maxwell’s back.  He wanted detailed answers and he would be lucky if Maxwell’s were even polysyllabic.   He had already arranged for Eunomia to send him the specs and blueprints so he could keep an eye on it.  He didn’t want anything to sneak by him.  Maxwell was spending all of her free time these days on building “Rocobi.”  She was the one who invented the original and made the two updates so far.  She wouldn’t let anyone else near it, even though Goddard had a whole medical division to do it.  She was on the mission that cost Jacobi his arm.  Maybe she felt some guilt about that.  

Kepler kept tabs on Maxwell’s progress, even if he expected her work to be nothing short of perfect.  She, like he, like Jacobi, would accept nothing less. That dedication made them the best agents in the SI-5.  Kepler wanted to make sure Jacobi was getting what he deserved. He trusted Maxwell to do everything she could, she cared deeply for Jacobi, but Kepler liked to be in the loop, even if he had to cut it and force his way in.  

“It’s very impressive, sir!” Eunomia told him cheerily about version 2.0. “It’s more like Mr. Jacobi’s organic arm.  The one he lost. Dr. Maxwell has fixed the minor issue with sensitivity.  She’s found a better exoskin, closed off the elbow, and it’s not as skinny. It’s much more human looking.”  

He already knew that from the designs he’d been sent.  “Outstanding,” Kepler said. “And she’s handing it off now?” 

“Yes, sir,” Eunomia replied.  

“Once she’s got it attached I want you to tell them both to meet me up here.” He liked to keep track of them.  He wanted to know.  He needed to know.  He _would_ know, whether Maxwell liked it or not.  There was very little at Goddard Futuristics that Warren Kepler _didn’t_ know.  He had Black Archive access.  He had Cutter’s ear.  He certainly knew everything going on in Jacobi and Maxwell’s little lives.  

The only reason Maxwell arrived on time was that Jacobi was with her, dragging her along with him. Jacobi was never late, especially when it came to Major Kepler. He didn’t and wouldn’t defy him.

Jacobi was a good man.  A smart man. An undyingly loyal man.  A man who needed someone to direct him and guide him.  Maxwell was smart, but she was willing to test Kepler – to push her luck.  But Kepler pushed his luck with her, too. They matched each other in a way Jacobi couldn’t and wouldn’t dream of.  Jacobi knew he was below Kepler. Maxwell elevated herself to his level, or at least she _tried_ to, as if she possibly could.   It was amusing that she thought she could even come close to him, to being as smart, as cunning, as, well, as _anything_ as Kepler, but he liked when she tried.  But regardless, their relationship was very different from his and Jacobi’s.   

He’d gotten closer to her recently, when she built Jacobi's robotic arm.  Kepler realized that he had her.  He knew her. He knew how to mold her, twist her.  And that meant he could finally trust her.  She was one of his hand-picked agents, but that didn’t mean their relationship had been perfect.  She’d proven herself and he’d been able to correctly twist her.  He’d been able to bypass her weaknesses and utilize her strengths.   Now she really felt like a part of his team, one of his agents, it wasn’t the same utter control he had over Jacobi but there was something almost better, more fun at least: a challenge, and those were hard for Warren Kepler to find.  

And she learned to trust him.  That was something he needed.  They had been in a battle of wills until two months ago.  She tried to keep him out of her business and out of her life.  But that wall had crumbled.  Tension dissolved.  Kepler needed Maxwell to believe he could get all three of them through all things alive and well.  That they were a team rather than Maxwell pitted against Kepler with Jacobi torn between them.  She did now, finally, after a year and a half.  That meant the three of them could function as a perfect unit.  And he could trust her as well.  He could trust her to listen to him, to follow orders, to let him be the commanding officer he was.  She thought now that however he acted he did have their – her and Jacobi’s – best interests at heart.

She was partially right.  Warren Kepler always acted in  _ his  _ best interest, but, generally, that matched that of his operatives.  He usually had their best interests at heart because they were usually his best interests, too.  Jacobi and Maxwell were  _ valuable _ .  They were excellent at their jobs.  If he could help it he would get them through everything in one piece...well, alive, at least.  Jacobi hadn’t escaped his last mission in one piece.  But without Kepler Jacobi would have ended up far worse than just an amputee.  He wouldn’t be sitting in front of his commanding officer right now.  He knew Jacobi would never forget that.  Jacobi had nothing but faith in Kepler.  

Jacobi and Maxwell sat in the same chairs they always did, Jacobi’s further in the room, Maxwell closer to the door.  Attached to Jacobi’s bicep was “Rocobi” 2.0.  This was the first time Kepler had seen it in the flesh, so to speak, and it was certainly an improvement on the 1’s.  

The three of them had been picked for another important mission. Kepler was used to it, but he was glad whenever Jacobi and Maxwell were picked for jobs like this, too. He’d made them, trained them, molded them, and they answered directly to him.  They had to live up to his reputation, and, often,  _ they did _ .  He slapped their dossiers down on their desk and slid them across the table.

“Mr. Jacobi, Dr. Maxwell, dust off your Sunday best, we’re going to a party tomorrow,” he said.

They took their dossiers looking a little confused.  Jacobi scowled as he read, then he looked up at Kepler with something close to alarm as Maxwell stared at the dossier in disbelief and dismay. “Black tie?” Maxwell asked as if making sure she was seeing the words correctly.  

“Yes, black tie.  Goddard Futuristics will be providing the clothing and makeup—” 

“Makeup?!” Maxwell’s head shot up. 

“You will survive, I promise,” Kepler said dryly.

“Sir…” Jacobi said looking at him, eyes skeptical as if he was waiting for Kepler to give them their real mission.   As if Kepler had ever played a joke in his life.  Jacobi’s voice became quiet as he realized the reality of the situation.   “Really?”

“Yes!  I swear to God you two are acting like I’ve just given you a death sentence!” 

“This might be worse!” Maxwell said. 

Kepler ignored her. “Read the dossier!  This is a mission of the utmost importance!  Stop your damn whining!” Kepler snapped.  He thought he was in for more complaining before the mission would be carried out.  They complained about Business Formal, he couldn’t imagine what Black Tie would do to them.  Looking over the vaguely slovenly scientists in front of him, he had a sneaking suspicion he would be tying Jacobi’s bow tie and that Maxwell had never applied so much as Chapstick in her life.  

“Tomorrow Faraday Technologies will be celebrating the release of their new tablet with a big shindig at David Baker’s residence.  The list’ll mostly be tech big wigs, plus the three of us.  Faraday is trying to break into the AI Field.  We’re going to put a stop to that. My role will be supervision and detection. I’ll keep you out of trouble and make sure everything goes smoothly. Dr. Maxwell, you will hack into Mr. Baker’s system and retrieve any and all information on their AI program.  Mr. Jacobi, you’ll blow the place to Hell once we’re done.”  Jacobi grinned at that.  “I’ll make sure you both get the openings you need.” 

“And it’s Black Tie?” Jacobi clarified again.

“Yes, Mr. Jacobi,” Kepler sighed. 

“And we have to be in character,” Maxwell this time.  “In character being dressed up?” 

“Yes, Dr. Maxwell.” 

“Really?” she asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Really?!” louder this time. “Dressed up?  With makeup?  And fancy… fancy everything?!” 

“Yes,” Kepler repeated pinching the bridge of his nose, his frustration was more than apparent. 

“And we both have to do this?” Jacobi asked.

“ _ Yes! _ ” he shouted this time, losing his patience.  

“Were you about to throw me under the black tie bus?” Maxwell asked, looking at her partner incredulously. 

Jacobi gave her an almost apologetic smile. 

“You have 24 hours to prepare yourselves for what is apparently going to be one of the longest and hardest nights of your lives, so I recommend you do whatever you need to do to prepare yourselves for looking and acting like human beings,” said Kepler slowly. 

They looked at him like two kicked puppies. 

 

***

 

The next day Jacobi and Maxwell were brought in to get dressed.  Jacobi had a tuxedo thrust into his arms and he looked at it with vague disgust.  It was nothing compared to the look Maxwell gave her dress for the evening; “loathing” hardly began to cover it.  She had already been forced to shave, something she told Kepler, without prompting, and much to Kepler’s disgust, she hadn’t done since she was sixteen.  “I hate it and if I get ingrown hairs you are going to hear  _ all about it,”  _ she told him, clearly realizing what a threat that was.  

First, they were both rushed off to have their hair tamed and teased.  Jacobi got a trim.  Maxwell had to suffer a trim, then having her hair straightened, then it pulled, pinned up, and sprayed into place.  And that was  _ before  _ she had makeup applied, brows plucked, and fake eyelashes put on.  Kepler came in to watch the process as her hair was pinned into an elegant up-do with bobby-pins, gel, and a pearl-covered clip.  

Maxwell winced,  clearly resisting the urge to just twist out of the grip of the poor SI-1 operative, Gema Coleman, who had been roped into dressing up Kepler’s pet agents.  

“Trouble, Dr. Maxwell?” Kepler asked, watching her squirm.  

“This is cruel and unusual punishment, Major.  OW!”  She pulled away from Coleman who looked apologetically from Maxwell to Kepler.  Kepler nodded for her to continue.  “Is this because I stole a French fry off your plate last week?” Maxwell asked. 

He chuckled, “No, no, I’m afraid this is what black tie means.” 

“Why do people do this voluntarily?!  What the Hell is wrong with them?!” Maxwell asked.  

“I couldn’t explain it to you if I tried,” Kepler answered, Maxwell simply wouldn’t understand the importance of physical appearances.  Kepler  _ did,  _ of course.  Now he was dressed in his own immaculate and perfectly tailored tuxedo, one of the rare occasions he abandoned the  medals and epaulets of his rank.  He wore gold cufflinks that had belonged to his late father.  His bowtie was perfect.  “Women always seem to put in a lot of effort for this kind of thing and you need to look the part.” 

“This isn’t just  _ effort _ !” Maxwell assured him.  “This is  _ torture!”  _

“That’s the best I can do,” said the SI-1 operative.  

Maxwell’s hair was usually a mess, almost a cloud or halo of curls around her head. She wore it in a ponytail to keep it out of her face, but Kepler wasn’t sure she ever did more than run a brush briefly through her hair to get it into place for the ponytail.  Now it was straightened and pinned (perhaps a little overzealously) and it looked more than half-way decent.  If Maxwell could keep the pins in for the night she’d easily get through it without attracting attention. She didn’t even really look like Maxwell.  

“Good work, Ms. Coleman,” Kepler told the operative with a firm nod.  She’d done better than he would have hoped.  “Dr. Maxwell, what do you think?” 

“I think if I survive the night it will be a miracle,” she said flatly.  

The door opened and Jacobi came in.  He was fully dressed with the exception of his tuxedo jacket and cufflinks.  He was fumbling with the bow tie.  “Uh…Major?” 

Kepler sighed.  Just as he’d suspected.  “C’mere,” he gestured for Jacobi to come closer.  The special operative obeyed.  Jacobi was on the taller side, though not as tall as Kepler.  Kepler loomed at 6’4" with extremely broad shoulders and chest.  He was muscular and as strong as those muscles implied. But he had enough black ops experience to be able to disappear in a crowd despite his size. 

Back in his army days, back when he was Captain Kepler fighting for the US in Afghanistan, back before it was determined that  _ niceness _ was more important than  _ winning _ and Kepler was discharged in disgrace for cruelty to civilians, his physique and strength had been excellent for intimidation and even better for enacting his threats if intimidation failed to work.  In the field it was still useful to be as tough as he was, but it certainly wasn’t in civilian circumstances like the one tonight, where he’d be at least five inches taller than the majority.  But he’d learned how to melt into crowds after being with Goddard’s intelligence division for nearly a decade.  

Kepler took the two sides of the other man’s bow tie and undid the “progress” Jacobi had made. Jacobi gave him an apologetic smile. 

“Did I do it wrong?” Jacobi asked.  

“Yes, Jacobi, you did it wrong,” he said flatly. He took the two halves and adjusted them so one was slightly lower than the other.  He crossed the halves over and pulled the longer end under the cross.  “You know I could do this when I was eight,” he muttered as he created the bow and pulled the other half underneath.  Then he pulled it through the loop he created. He pulled both sides tight.  Finished in a few seconds. 

“Not all of us are prodigies,” Jacobi grumbled in response.  He was clearly resisting the urge to loosen the tie. 

“Being a prodigy has  _ nothing _ to do with it,” Maxwell assured him. She was having makeup applied now and she squeezed her eyes closed against the eyeliner.  Coleman was trying to coax them open.

“Oh my God, Maxwell!” Jacobi said, looking at her closely for the first time since he entered the room. “You –”

“Shut up!” She had her eye pried open and she stared at the ceiling, gripping the chair’s arms as if her very life depended on it, her knuckles bloodless. “Not a damn word, Jacobi!” 

Jacobi was grinning in amusement. Maxwell, looked at him out of the tail of her eye as attention was turned to her lips. 

“I want to say  _ something  _ but, honestly, nothing is funnier than you right now,” he conceded. 

“Screw you, Jacobi!” 

“Please don’t talk, Dr. Maxwell,” pleaded Coleman.

Jacobi pulled out his Goddard smartphone and took a picture of Maxwell.  She looked like she might kick the poor SI-1 agent.  “Did you just take a picture of me?!” she asked angrily, turning her attention back to Jacobi.

“No, of course not,” he examined the photo and took another. “I didn’t that time either –” 

But Maxwell had been ready and in the photo her middle finger was raised.  Jacobi burst out laughing. 

“Send me those, Mr. Jacobi?” Kepler asked. 

“Of course, sir.” 

“Oh, come  _ on _ !” Maxwell snapped.  

After her makeup was done her eyebrows were plucked (there was literal screaming at this point and Jacobi looked in alarm to Kepler, who shrugged) and fake lashes were applied.  Then Maxwell disappeared into the bathroom to put on her dress.  It was black and floor-length, made of a shiny elegant material.  The length would have been ridiculous if not for the black high heeled shoes beneath.  The dress was sleeveless with off-shoulder straps.  She wore a wrap over her bare shoulders.  

She wobbled a little, used to wearing combat boots or sneakers, much like Jacobi did.  In all honesty, Kepler thought, they usually matched.  Outside of when they actually wore uniforms on field missions, they both wore graphic t-shirts, jeans, over-sized sweatshirts, and sneakers or boots.  This was the best dressed Kepler had ever seen either of them.  And barring something like this again, he thought it was the best dressed they would ever be. 

Jacobi tried to take another photo of Maxwell but she grabbed his phone and threw it away from him. 

“Hey!” Jacobi complained. 

Kepler picked up the phone. The photo was just a blur of Maxwell’s hand and half of her angry face. He passed Jacobi his phone.  Its screen was cracked, but it had been before Maxwell threw it, the back was slightly charred but, again, that was nothing new. 

The rest of the photos on the phone were mostly of Maxwell, Maxwell and Jacobi, or else Jacobi’s collection of military tech in varying phases of functionality and repair.  If anyone picked it up and idly flipped through it, Jacobi would look like some eccentric collector.  No one would guess he was an intelligence operative and someone who worked on the largest and most destructive weaponry in the world, often things that violated several treaties at a time. Maxwell’s phone had similar pictures of Jacobi and the two of them together, the mirror of Jacobi’s, as well as pictures of her battle drones.  

Jacobi and Maxwell seemed like normal people from their photos and phones.  Because, to an extent, they were.  They weren’t born soldiers like Kepler was. They weren’t like Kepler ready to fight for and seize greatness. They were just like everyone else, but they had been molded into something worthwhile, each forcibly twisted by Kepler himself into something exceptional, something great.  Kepler, on the other hand, had always been pure ambition, strength, courage, and drive.

“Best” was never good enough.  “Best” was not something Kepler aspired to.  “Best” didn’t matter, it just meant you beat out the other guys.  Cutter had been right that day in the elevator years ago.  “Best” wasn’t good enough, because there was always “better,” and  _ that  _ was what Warren Kepler strove for.  Jacobi and Maxwell stopped at best. But that only made sense, better was something most people would never understand. 

Kepler had no photographs on his phone.  No stored numbers.  No appointments.  He obsessively deleted his call logs and texts.  Warren Kepler did not exist outside of Goddard Futuristics so there was nothing to keep.  Nothing to leave behind.  Nothing to save.  He had no actual interest in the pictures Jacobi had just sent, he would delete them.  He had wanted to be part of the scene, for show rather than for sentimentality.  He was playing the Warren Kepler they thought they knew.  No, the Warren Kepler  _ Maxwell  _ thought she knew;  _ Jacobi  _ knew there was far more to Kepler than he would ever see. But even Jacobi thought he knew Kepler too well. 

In front of him Jacobi and Maxwell were fighting, bickering half-jokingly.  Jacobi was mimicking her wobble and teasing her about her makeup.  Maxwell punched him in the arm.  

“It’s not fair!  They don’t even pluck your stupid giant eyebrows!” she ranted, nearly tripping over her dress.  

Jacobi caught her, “Aww, poor wittle Maxwell has to wear a dwess and high heels!” 

“You have  _ no idea  _ what this is like, Jacobi!  All you had to do was put on a stupid suit!”

“And a bow tie!” said Jacobi, dropping the baby talk.  

“Awww, poor wittle Jacobi has to wear a bow tie!” 

“It’s real tight,” Jacobi replied, still holding her arm as she got used to walking in high heels.  She held her dress up perhaps a little higher than she should have to keep it from underfoot.  

“I am wearing something literally called a ‘choker!’” Maxwell pointed out. 

“If you two are done...” pressed Kepler.  

“Not even close,” Maxwell answered. 

Jacobi cut in, ever eager to please, “…But we’ll put it on hold, sir.” 

 

***

 

They took a limo driven by an anonymous SI-1 operative. Maxwell played with her hair until Kepler slapped her hand away from it. She shot him a dirty look.

“It has to look perfect,” Kepler said, before slapping Jacobi’s hand away from his tie.

“I hate this,” Maxwell groaned.

“ _ Right?! _ ” Jacobi responded. “This is the worst!” 

“You lost an arm two months ago!” Kepler pointed out.  

“This might be worse,” Jacobi grumbled, but something closed off behind his eyes.  Maxwell pinched his shoulder hard to snap him out of it.  “Ow!” She gave him a warm smile when he looked over at her in alarm. 

“This is torture though,” Maxwell conceded. 

“Torture?” Kepler gave an incredulous bark of laughter, “Please, Maxwell, have I ever told you two about the time I was being held in a Russian prison?  I was stationed outside of Moscow when –” Kepler began, in part to get both of their attention back, in part to help Maxwell drag Jacobi back out of his depression, and in part to punish them for acting like children.  

“Major, I would rather be there right now,” Maxwell said flatly, looking at him with one of the most serious expressions Kepler had ever seen her wear, as if she would testify in court that she would prefer the torture chamber.

They arrived long after Cutter had.  Kepler took the instructions he had been given very seriously. Upon arrival their coats were taken. One bomb was in Jacobi’s coat pocket disguised to look like a phone, its timer was set, there would be no wiggle room, no argument, no way around it, do or die.  Kepler grinned.  That was his favorite kind of mission, when screwing up meant ultimate destruction, the end of the line.  It got the heart pumping, the adrenaline flowing, and Kepler couldn’t be happier than when he heard that click in Jacobi’s pocket just before he handed off his coat.   _ On your mark, get set, go…. _

Maxwell would be in charge of the larger and last bomb, which she would put under Baker’s desk to blow up everything in his office and honestly most of his mansion.  It was physically smaller than the first bomb, but it packed more of a punch. The explosives inside were many times more volatile, many times more destructive.  Despite its strength it fit easily in Maxwell’s clutch. 

“I am done with this dress already and it hasn’t even been an hour yet!” was the last thing Kepler heard Maxwell mutter before he went to find high ground to survey the scene.  She was battling her dress, forcing it down and smooth while struggling to keep it from under her shoe. 

Kepler snuck through the crowd, unnoticed and ungreeted.  He was no one, just like the two he’d left behind at the hor d’oeuvres table. He was the ghost of Warren Kepler while he was still alive.  That was the price you paid for everything you got in the SI-5.  It was a price they all paid willingly.  And if Cutter offered Kepler the same deal again Kepler would take it just as enthusiastically.  There was power in Goddard Futuristics, power he never would have had as a civilian.  He had nothing after the army discharged him and Cutter offered him the ability to grab  _ everything _ .  Everything he ever wanted.  Adventure, personnel, and most importantly  _ power _ .   And he planned on doing just that, using all of his resources to climb to the top...and then keep going. 

He worked his way to the top of the marble staircase.  Kepler stood surveying the immense crowd.  He wouldn’t stay there long, not long enough to be noticed,  just long enough to get a feel for the room, get to know the crowd a bit, then he would duck down back into the party proper.  Cutter was shaking hands across the room, far from any of his operatives, at least those Kepler knew on sight.  Kepler ducked his head and spoke quietly into his hidden earpiece.  “Nitramide, Zero-One, this is Macallan, do you read me? Over.”  He used their three call signs.  

“Roger, sir,” came Jacobi's voice, slightly distorted by something. Not interference, but it sounded strange. Off.  Muted. 

“Zero-One?” he asked. 

“Loud and clear, over,” she responded.  No distortion. 

“What are your positions?”

“Watching Nitramide stuff his face with caviar tartlets,” Maxwell said with an audible smirk.

“Of course he is,” muttered Kepler rubbing his forehead.

“Sorry, sir,” said Jacobi audibly swallowing.  “We’re ready whenever you are.” 

“Do either of you have visual on Naja?” The call sign for Cutter.

“Negative, sir,” said Maxwell, “We’re clean.” 

“Outstanding. Try to keep it that way.  Alright, we’ve got a half hour before showtime.  Have a good time, kids,” he said, descending the staircase again.  “I’ll keep you posted on where Naja and security are. And for God’s sake, don’t just stand at the hor d'oeuvres table!” 

He knew they would stick together.  He knew they’d probably hang out near food, stalking waiters.  He knew every few minutes Maxwell’s hand would go to her hair to pause over it, resisting the impulse to just yank it free.  But they were good at their jobs.  They fit into the crowd, just faces, two more people among David Baker’s guests.  That was hard to do, especially if someone noticed they didn’t recognize you.  But Jacobi and Maxwell could handle it.  They knew how to disappear.  They knew how to field any questions they might be asked, how to shift into the aliases they had been assigned. He was proud of them.  Proud of what he’d created and proud of what they had become. 

Warren Kepler was a pragmatic man.  A man who understood self-preservation.  He told every recruit he worked with that if he needed to, he could kill them.  At the very least, he could live without them.  But if he was honest with himself it would be hard to lose either of the operatives on the floor.  He could.  He  _ always _ could.  If it came down to it he could do it himself.  But it would be difficult.  He would almost miss them if they were gone.  Almost.  Well...he would almost miss Jacobi.  He wasn’t sure if he’d feel anything at all if Maxwell died.  Maybe a brief sting, like a paper cut.  

He allowed time to pass until they weren’t the most recent attendees.  Until they disappeared from anyone’s memory.  He let the bomb timers run down.  He wondered if Jacobi and Maxwell were getting concerned.  Jacobi probably wasn’t.  He might have known better than anybody else that his timers were perfect, but he also trusted Kepler with his life.  Even more telling, he trusted Kepler with Maxwell’s life. 

Every so often Kepler glanced at the GPS in his pocket.  He was keeping track of Baker and his men – Cutter’s spies having earlier bugged them – as well as Cutter himself who had put on a tracker before entering the party.  Security detail was big tonight, maybe they expected someone to make a move.  But it didn’t matter, Kepler could easily declaw them by coaching Maxwell through the obstacle course of David Baker’s mansion. 30 minutes later, Kepler muttered into his earpiece, “Nitramide, are you ready to pull the curtain?” 

“Just waiting for the green light, Macallan,” said Jacobi who was clearly eating something else.

“What is it this time?” he asked.

“Shrimp toast,” Maxwell answered, this time she was speaking through a full mouth too.  “Caviar is gross, by the way.  Why do people eat it?” 

“Because it’s expensive,” Kepler said, although he liked the taste of caviar very much. He was digitally ensuring that Cutter was a safe distance from his operatives.  He couldn’t see Jacobi and Maxwell but he  _ could _ see Baker talking, laughing, with a group of anonymous tech wizards across the room.  He could also see Cutter far away chit-chatting cheerily with a small crowd of people in expensive tuxedos and dresses.  No one would have any idea Cutter had anything to do with this. 

“I thought it was pretty good,” Jacobi said. 

“Zero-One do you see your opening?” Kepler asked keeping them on track. 

“Absolutely,” Maxwell said.  She knew the floor plans, just as Jacobi and Kepler himself did.  She knew how to get to Baker’s office and Kepler would steer her away from any security personnel.  

“Then let’s get this show on the road!” said Kepler.

“Roger,” said Maxwell.

“Wilco,” said Jacobi.

The feed went quiet. 

Outside the window, fireworks burst.


	2. Alana Maxwell

 Outside the window fireworks burst. 

It was enough to startle the guests and send the hosts out to see what had caused them to go off early. The answer was beside Maxwell with a pocketful of napkins into which he was stuffing extra hor d'oeuvres.  It had been Maxwell’s idea and Jacobi had readily agreed to it.  She would have done the same but the damn dress didn’t even  have  pockets.  

The moment he hit the remote detonator programmed to Baker’s fireworks display, Jacobi glanced at Maxwell. She nodded at him before slipping out into the hall.  It was an easy walk to Baker’s office.  A speed walk, but a walk.  If she was caught she could easily say she got lost.  Hadn’t she heard the fireworks go off?  Well, yes, but she thought that was Baker’s usual ostentatiousness showing through.  But she wouldn’t be caught.  Kepler was steering her.  

 “You’ve got a man coming up on your left, duck down that side hall,” came Kepler’s drawl through her earpiece. 

She obeyed and watched a man in a black suit jog down the hallway toward the problem.  She waited until his footfalls were silenced by distance, then began her speed walk again.  

Her feet hurt. The bobby-pins in her hair were scraping her scalp. A single stubborn lock had come loose and bounced in front of her vision.  She blew it out of her face with effort.  It was hard to move quickly in the dress and she hiked it up to walk faster.  She didn’t have much time to find his office; security might be back at any second.  They’d think there was just a malfunction with the fireworks, not that anyone was there.  Once they went back to patrolling the halls they would report anyone suspicious.  And she certainly looked out of place, extremely awkward and uneasy in this atmosphere.

_ Ugh _ .  She hated this.  She had always hated dressing up.  Even as a little girl when she was supposed to love it she  _ hated _ it.  Dresses were  _ the worst _ and this one pinched at the waist!  She had to wear tights that she was ready to just rip apart!  The shoes were uncomfortable, she hated the feeling of makeup on her skin, and her face still hurt from the eyebrow plucking.  She was uncomfortable.  She was in persistent nibbling pain.  Why did women do this to themselves?  

This easily ranked in her bottom five missions, but i t would never be the worst mission she had ever been on.  She knew what the worst mission was and there would never be another that could possibly take its place.  That was, and would always be, the Teel Mission, the mission that two months before cost Jacobi his arm and nearly his life.  It was the most horrible experience of her life, and she had quite a few to choose from.  But he had survived!  He had survived and he would make it through his recovery!  

She’d been helping him get better over the past two months, trying to get him back to normal after normalcy was ripped away from him.  Not the normal he once had, that would never come back, but to find his new normal. 

When Kepler called them to his office to spring this whole stupid party on them Maxwell had been handing off  _ Rocobi  _ 2.0 to Jacobi. It was lunchtime and Maxwell showed up at Jacobi’s ballistics lab. Their departments shared a building so it wasn’t hard to track Jacobi down before he went to lunch.  It was unusual that Maxwell did the tracking; usually Jacobi had to pull her away from whatever her latest project was.  But Maxwell thought she might have finished  _ Rocobi  _ 2.0 and wanted to see it in action.   

He was wearing it now.  He was getting more used to his cybernetic arm, and although he wasn’t completely comfortable yet, they had both come a long way from 1.0.  She had had a deadline to finish 1.0 and she was never happy with it. It was too thin, the elbow joint was visible, it wasn’t as sensitive as his human arm. But she finished it on time and knew she could fix it. 

By his second Sunday out of the hospital Maxwell had version 1.1 ready for him. She went unannounced to his apartment that evening as soon as it was done. He buzzed her in and she rode the elevator with a confused older woman who kept eyeing the strange long package in Maxwell's arms.

“You’re his friend, right?” she asked.  “I’ve seen you here before.” 

“Hm?” Maxwell asked with mock politeness.

“Him. In apartment 5A. I think he works for the government. Keeps to himself. Very...eccentric young man.” 

“Jason Jang,” Maxwell said, using the fake name Jacobi had been given by Goddard Futuristics to fit into civilian life after they faked his death.  “He’s my best friend.”  And  _ that _ was the truth. She was closer to Jacobi than she ever had been to anyone else in the world. Closer to him than she had been to any of her three brothers even in their kindest ( _ HA! _ ) moments.  She felt a connection to Jacobi she never imagined was possible.  They were best friends. They were what siblings were supposed to be. Maybe even something greater than that. Maxwell couldn't explain it, not without settling for irrational and inexact terminology. She just knew their relationship was something greater than everyone else’s.  No siblings, no friends, no lovers ever felt like they did.  Platonic to the core, but closer, better, stronger than any romance ever written about.  

Jacobi was the best friend she could ever ask for.  He was a better man than he gave himself credit for.  A kinder man.  A more patient man.  A more caring man.  As smug as he seemed, he cut himself short so often, so unsure of his decisions off the ballistics range.  He should have been so much more confident.  He was so much better than he knew. 

She didn’t know how she could live without Jacobi at this point.  

 “Will you ask him to stop doing whatever smells like gasoline?  It’s bothering my husband.”

“I will,” Maxwell lied with a smile.  “Has he done it recently?” She hoped so. It would show substantial progress toward emotional recovery. That would mean he was up to his old habits again, making napalm in his apartment, but she doubted he was so confident in using his artificial arm yet. They were working hard on it, but a fortnight just wasn’t enough time to get used to a prosthesis, regardless of how well it functioned. But she kept that desperate hope until the woman answered. 

“Not in the past few weeks, no. The floor has a less chemical smell than usual. What does he do in there?” she asked, leaning in with curiosity.  

“Classified,” Maxwell said, exiting the elevator and walking to the end of the hall opposite the disappointed old woman. She knocked on Jacobi's door and it opened instantly.

“Hey,” he said, robotic arm hanging at his side. He was wearing a t-shirt and Maxwell could see how poorly the carbon fiber bicep met up with the flesh one. Maxwell would be embarrassed if she didn't have the answer in her arms. “Is that another arm?”

“Yep.” She entered and made room on his coffee table by shoving aside some papers, his laptop, a tv remote, a mug, and a PlayStation controller.

“Watch it!” he said, catching the empty coffee mug right-handed, using the artificial hand. Maxwell smiled at that. He was instinctively sticking to his dominant arm, organic or not, and he was getting very good at using it.

“Oh, you’re fine,” Maxwell assured him.  She took her pocket knife from her bag and cut the tape holding the bubble wrap tightly around the arm. She unrolled it to reveal the thicker  _ Rocobi  _ 1.1.  The tendons on the fingers were better hidden. Slightly less of the elbow was exposed on this model.  The exoskin was more fleshed out, a thicker piece of material (for 2.0, already in process, she was finding another material altogether). “Ready?” She looked over at him.

“Yeah,” he answered, not looking away from 1.1.  It was a hard look to read.  There was something almost resigned in it, something sad.  He flexed his robotic fingers one last time before bringing his organic hand to the top of the bionic arm where the release was.  A few motions – too few: Maxwell’s next updates would have to make it harder to remove it from the titanium peg implant in Jacobi’s bicep – and the arm came away.  Jacobi did not look at the revealed stump.  It was scarring badly.  Maxwell blamed herself for that.  She wasn’t a surgeon – or even an MD – but she had helped with the surgery for the implant to make sure they did it correctly.  But the scar wasn’t such a big deal.  He was alive after all, and life always left a few scars on everyone. 

Maxwell passed him the new arm, fully charged, ready for him to use.  He didn’t say anything, just nodded.  He snapped it into place with a little effort.  He flexed the fingers, twisted the wrist, bent the elbow.  

“Let me see,” Maxwell said.  

“It’s fine,” Jacobi answered, but he didn’t sound in any way convincing.  He let Maxwell examine the arm.  She went through the same motions he had, feeling for any stutters or sticks.  She made sure every joint worked as well as it had when she tested it in her laboratory.  Jacobi was uncharacteristically quiet through the process.  

“What’s wrong?” she asked. 

“Nothing,” he said.  When she released his arm, her examination complete, he let it hang limply at his side like something dead. 

“Are the joints responding?”  Maxwell asked, everything seemed to be working but she wasn’t wearing it.  There may have been something she missed.  

“Yeah.” 

“Can you feel everything?” Maxwell asked.  She began searching for something to jab him with to make sure the nerves were working properly.  Pain was an essential part of life, and if Jacobi was going to protect his robotic arm, he had to be able to experience it.  

“Yeah.” 

“Is it uncomfortable?” she asked.  Maybe it was pinching him at the bicep. 

“Nope.  Even better than the last one,” he answered.  

“Then what's wrong?” she asked. 

“Nothing.” 

“This isn't a mechanical error…” Maxwell said.  She should have realized it from the second he gave the arm that look.  The problem wasn’t with the arm.  The problem was the loss.  The angst and anxiety of the past two weeks weighing down on her friend.   

“There's no error!  It’s fine!" he snapped.  He dropped down onto the couch sullenly.  

“Jacobi,” she said.

“I said it's  _ fine _ !”

“Jacobi!” she repeated, more fiercely.

"What?!" he demanded, looking at her for the first time.

_ Slap!   _

Her hand collided with his cheek; a fast, hard, open-palmed slap across the face.  His head thrust to the side from the force of it.  The skin quickly reddened as the sharp sound hung in the air between them.  He stared at her mouth agape, stunned into silence.  Slowly he put his hand to his cheek.  

“Don't lie to me!  Don’t fake it!  I have your back, you have mine!  If something's wrong you tell me about it!  Got it?!"

He stared at her, his hand on his cheek. He started to laugh, clearly stunned, “Jesus…” 

“Got it?!” she repeated.

“Yeah,” he said, “I get it.” 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Maxwell said, raising her hand threateningly.

“Okay!  Okay…” he said, “no more hitting.”  His voice fell,  “It’s just...it’s not mine. It’s not my arm.” 

“It’s the only arm you have...” Maxwell said.

“Yeah,” scoffed Jacobi. “Because the real one’s gone.” 

“That’s right,” Maxwell said. “And you can’t bring it back. You can’t change what happened. You can’t get away from it.”

“You don’t have to remind me...” muttered Jacobi.

“ _ Listen to me!  _  You can’t get away from what’s real. But you can learn to accept it.”

He stared at his arm for a long time without saying a word.

“Let me help you,” she said.

He said nothing, just shook his head. 

_ Slap! _

“Let me help you!”  she said desperately.  “Please…” 

He rubbed his cheek.  Again she’d snapped him out of that sullen quiet.  “Okay,” he said, “if you really think you can.” 

“I  _ can _ ,” she promised him.  

And she did.

She’d been talking to him about it since it happened.  Trying to help him through it.  When he shut down, when he got to mopey, she also gave him a good pinch or, in worst-case scenarios, a hard slap to return him to his senses.  No matter what happened in life, you had to go on.  The future would be brighter; he just had to get through the darkness.  She knew life was hard sometimes.  She could only attempt to imagine how hard it was to lose a limb.  But no matter what you had to push forward. No matter what things would get better. 

This was Jacobi’s first mission since it happened. It was clear the physical therapy had been paying off.  He used his arm instinctively, without pause, without a hitch.  When he didn’t think about it, he was fine.  

And  _ Kepler _ had been helping. That was something she hadn’t expected.  Her perception of Kepler had been wildly thrown off recently. He seemed so much more human now.  Just two months ago she thought every bit of kindness he dispensed was a lie. She thought he didn’t have any feelings beyond those for himself. But things were different now.  He had a soft spot.  He  _ did _ care.  He had been very clear in saying that there were limits to his goodness, but watching him interact with the wounded Jacobi, Maxwell didn’t think it ended with either Jacobi or herself.  At the very least, not with Jacobi.  

It started when he kept bothering her in her lab as she tried to design  _ Rocobi  _ 1.0, when he kept her on track by persistently annoying her, doing what he had to to ensure success in his sneaky way.  Sneaky. That was the thing about Kepler’s affection.  It was underhanded.  It was quiet and sometimes even tainted with cruelty.  It was manipulative and dark.  But it was there. 

He came to watch Jacobi’s physical therapy sometimes, especially during the first week. It was under the guise of professionalism, the CO checking on the troops.  But Maxwell thought something deeper than that.  She now believed that Jacobi’s adoration of Kepler was more reciprocal than she’d initially thought.  Jacobi was absolutely Kepler’s subordinate, but he wasn’t his tool.   _ Her  _ relationship with Kepler was very different.  More equal.  More honest.  And they were getting closer.  

They were almost like a family. Dysfunctional, but maybe all families were.  Maxwell’s biological family certainly was.  So was Jacobi’s.

Maybe that was the way it was supposed to be.  Maybe every father was like Kepler.  Hers had been unfeeling and selfish, worse than Kepler himself.  For the bullying he’d dished out during her childhood Maxwell had a restraining order against him (and the rest of her family, who were just as bad).  For all their cruelty, all their bullying, all their psychological abuse, she had made it so that, legally, she would never have to see any of them again.  Jacobi’s father sounded like he was on par with her own.   Maybe Major Kepler was as good as it got.  He was not a good man, not by a long shot, but he was not as bad as he appeared.  

And Jacobi...Jacobi was the best brother she could imagine having.

“Ahead of you, coming down that perpendicular hall,” Kepler said firmly. 

She dodged part of the security team, hanging back until they moved on.  She overheard them discussing what must have been a short circuit in the fireworks display.  Nothing pointed toward sabotage.  Because in addition to being an amazing friend, Daniel Jacobi was an excellent operative and the best damn ballistics technician in the world. 

She made it to the entrance of Baker’s private study unnoticed. She removed a small tablet from the pointlessly tiny handbag she’d been forced to carry instead of her usual large backpack.  She hooked her tablet up to the door lock and ran her hacking program.  It went through hundreds of possible number combinations per second and the lock  _ click _ ed open within a minute.  The door silently, smoothly opened at Maxwell’s touch.  It was a clear shot to the computer. She checked the clock on her smartphone. She had fifteen minutes.  Maxwell strapped the bomb to the underside of the desk and then got to work.  She slid out of her painful shoes and felt herself shrink down a good three inches.  

She stood at the computer, hooked up her tablet, and began to hammer commands into it. For someone at the head of a major tech company, it was far too easy to get into his PC. It almost worried Maxwell. But then he probably didn’t expect anyone to get this far in his own home. Her worry quickly melted away: all the information she needed was right there.  Everything on their new AI program.  She scanned through the design documents.  Yes, these were them.  They were real.  And the designs weren’t bad.  It was almost a shame to waste them.  

“Zero-One how’s it going?” Jacobi’s voice over her earpiece. “You’ve got eight minutes until things get real hot in there. Over.” 

“It’s fine,” Maxwell muttered.  “I’m copying over the plans now. Faraday might be onto something here…” 

“Don’t tell me you're thinking about switching to the losing team,” said Jacobi incredulously.

“Oh  _ please _ , whatever they have is nothing compared to what we do,” Maxwell assured him.  But she paused, went back, and scanned through the documents, seeing if there was anything else she wanted to steal.  She began to add files that interested her.  Files that she could use as inspiration but she hadn’t been explicitly told to grab.  Files she would regret losing forever when she wiped his computer and cloud clean with the virus stored in the thumb drive in her handbag.  

“Six minutes,” Jacobi told her after a pause. 

“Don’t worry, I’m watching the timer.  Where’s Macallan?” asked Maxwell.  

“Playing the game,” Jacobi said. “Some fat guy stepped on his foot and now they’re laughing it off.” 

“How does he do this stuff?” Maxwell asked in awe.  

“By being charming and capable,” Jacobi responded. 

“He can pull off almost anything,” Maxwell said. 

“You don’t even know the half of it,” Jacobi sounded genuinely star-struck.  Then she heard the gentle tinkling of glass. “‘S’cuse me.” 

“Are you still eating?” she asked. 

“I am drinking free champagne because it is free and I am a goddamn adult and I can do what I want,” said Jacobi.  

“Makes sense.  Will you save me some of those oysters?  Those were delicious,” Maxwell said.  

“I’ll see what I can do.  They might fall apart in my pocket.” 

She watched the files quickly transferring.  The number of files and documents would be crippling to most hackers, but Maxwell was beyond simply hacker.  It also helped that she was on a very rigid timer. “Come on, hurry up!” she muttered to the computer.  “This is taking forever!” 

“Four minutes, Zero-One. Don't push this timer,” came Kepler’s voice.  There was no threat in his tone, he sounded excited, almost as if he wanted her to do just that.  This wasn’t surprising, Kepler lived for the razor edge.  

“I am not trying to!  Dammit come  _ on _ …Gotcha!” Maxwell shouted triumphantly before slapping a hand over her mouth. No one seemed to hear her.  She removed the drive and stuffed it into her bag.  She took out a second one, far smaller, and inserted it into the computer.  It contained a virus that would eat through the memory and cloud like necrotising fasciitis did tissue.  It would shut down Faraday Technologies for a few days at least.  Everything would be gone in less than a minute.  The only copy of Faraday’s accomplishment was in her stupid sparkly purse.  And there would be no chance of tracing her – when the bomb detonated it will utterly obliterate her drive. 

“Zero-One! Move out!” Kepler said gleefully.

“I’m on my way,” Maxwell replied.  She had to jam her feet back into the horrible shoes and ran out into the hall. Her footfalls echoed loudly and endlessly in the huge hallway. 


	3. Daniel Jacobi

 Her footfalls echoed loudly and endlessly in the huge hallway.  

But they were barely audible over the crowd and Jacobi thought the only reason he could hear her at all was because one ear had every noise she made forcibly broadcast into it. It was loud enough that he could hear the fabric of her dress crinkling as she ran. Jacobi took a long sip of his champagne. It was a shame to waste it. 

Subtly he’d been filling his pockets with napkin-wrapped appetizers. Maxwell had asked him to save her (and Major Kepler, who hadn’t had anything all night) some things off the table.  Jacobi knew there was no way Kepler would eat something Jacobi had stashed in his pocket, but Maxwell was confident she could at least get him to try it.  He added a caviar tartlet for himself.  

He licked some créme fraîche off his carbon-fiber thumb. It was a sensation he was still getting used to. The material was not flesh.  It didn’t even mimic flesh.  Not even close.  But it was the closest thing he had now.  He could feel the cream on his finger. He could feel the pressure of his tongue on it and the sensation of wet.  Under his tongue he could feel the shape of his thumb.  It was a functioning thumb on a functioning hand on a functioning arm.  It did everything he had lost.  It was his arm. But he was still struggling to shake the sensation that it wasn’t _.   _ Because it  _ wasn’t.   _ He’d lost his real arm on the Teel Mission when everything went wrong.  

Maxwell would hit him again if she could see the look he knew was on his face.  He forced himself to withstand the wave of dysmorphia, to push through it.  He took a deep breath and remembered what Maxwell told him to do at times like these, when it threatened to crash around him again and submerge him, when his breathing became ragged, when his mind rushed, when his heart pounded, when his thoughts went back to the Teel Mission.   _ Okay, Jacobi, it’s okay.  Focus on your breathing.  In and out.  Focus on right now.  Right this second.  Breathe.  In and out.   _ He passed the flute of champagne from left hand to right.   _ Focus on the shape of the glass.  Focus on the stem under the fingers.  Breathe.  In and out.  The glass is smooth.  The stem is thin.  Feel it under your fingers.   _

_ Your _ fingers.  Not  _ the _ fingers.  That was the first time he’d thought of them that way.  His eyes snapped open.  They were  _ his _ .  He smiled and took a sip of champagne in a miniature celebration.  He’d have to tell Maxwell later, although she’d gloat that her technique worked.  She would be impossible to live with for a week or so.  He chuckled to himself.  More impossible than usual.  He had to hand it to her.  Maxwell’s technique, mindfulness, whatever it was called, really worked. It had gotten him through a lot over the past two months.  

The past two months had been... _ bizarre _ didn’t encompass it.  It was both the hardest time of his life and also, somehow, in some ways, the best.  The best because Kepler and Maxwell had been there every step of the way.  He’d never felt so…well, honestly, so well-loved.  Major Kepler and Maxwell had saved his life.  And they’d been there for him throughout the ordeal since then.  Maxwell had been hellbent on making an arm that was better than perfect.  An indistinguishable replacement for what had been lost. She was at his apartment  _ every day _ for the first few weeks, just to make sure he was okay, to make sure he wasn’t too wrapped up in his own dark thoughts, to keep him from slipping into depression.  And Kepler…he never expected Kepler to be the way he had been.  Occasionally he’d visited during physical therapy.  He stood like a commanding officer but Jacobi wanted to believe there was some deeper reason there.  And then there was his first night home after it happened…

 Maxwell drove him home from the hospital where he stayed a week.  This was a few days after she dropped his Volvo 1800 ES in his building’s garage, putting it in his spot.  She knew which without Jacobi having to tell her, of course, she’d seen him park there dozens of times.  She didn’t want him going home alone when all was said and done.  The other tenants may have noticed that the building smelled a bit less like smoke and chemicals, but they probably didn’t notice the missing neighbor.  If Maxwell didn’t take him home, no one would have come to check on him.  Such was the life of an SI-5 agent: nonexistent.  Not that sarcastic jackass Daniel Jacobi would have reached out to anyone, even if he was still in more legitimate R&D.  

“You coming up?” he asked when Maxwell stopped her Wrangler. But he knew the answer, Maxwell was already parked outside the building, one step away from feeding coins into the meter.  

“Yep,” Maxwell answered matter-of-factly. 

Jacobi’s arm, what was left of it, was sore, but not unexpectedly so. He was treating it with Ibuprofen following his doctor’s – and Maxwell’s – recommendation.  He was getting used to the fake arm.  Maxwell had started his physical therapy and that strange disconnected feeling was starting to fade.  It was a bit like getting used to a new pair of glasses, not wrong but not right.  Movement was feeling more natural at least, even if he was struggling to get over the dysmorphia.  

They went up into Jacobi’s cluttered – really, messy – fifth-floor apartment. It was exactly as he left it. Except someone had come in and done his dishes. He looked from his sink to Maxwell. She’d brought him clothes from home. She’d taken his car back. She’d…

“It was getting grosser than usual,” Maxwell said.

“Thanks,” he responded genuinely.  “For doing them.” 

“No problem,” she answered.  “You were in the hospital;  _ someone _ had to do the dishes before they grew hair.” 

He chuckled.  He untied his Chucks, tossed them aside, so normal, just like every other time he ever came home after work.  His combat boots were sitting in the corner, just like they always were.  A sweatshirt was draped over the back of the armchair.  His partially finished, half-modified, half-reconstructed M224 mortar cannon was waiting for him on his worktable.  Rockets were still standing beside the wall, landmines still hung like gold records on the wall, and his laptop was still opened on the coffee table, besides a PS4 controller.  He’d been playing  _ Ground Zeroes  _ before he left for work that fateful morning.  He expected to be home that evening.  He chuckled darkly to himself now.

“What’s so funny?” Maxwell asked. 

“Just thinking about how normal the Teel Mission was supposed to be.” 

“Things go wrong,” Maxwell said apologetically.  “I should have taken it more seriously, I’m sorry.” 

“We’ve been through this.  You saved my life out there.  There’s nothing you need to be sorry for.”  

“You saved mine,” she reminded him.  And he had.  They’d each saved each other across innumerable missions. 

“What are friends for?” Jacobi shrugged.  He would always save her.  She would always save him.  They had each other’s backs.  She would survive so long as Jacobi could help it.  He would survive so long as Maxwell was there. 

They were trying to figure out dinner plans when there was a knock on the door.  It surprised them both.  Jacobi couldn’t imagine who it might be, he glanced at Maxwell, who shrugged. She rose and answered it.  Waiting there was Major Kepler carrying grocery bags and dressed in civilian clothing. He still walked like a military man.  That gait Jacobi would recognize anywhere. He looked the way he did that day Jacobi met him in that dive bar in San Francisco: completely out of place and way too stiff.

“Evening Mr. Jacobi, Dr. Maxwell” he said, nodding to them both. Jacobi didn’t know Major Kepler even knew where he lived.  He didn’t know how Kepler would even go about getting that information.  No, that was stupid, of course he did.  He got it from Cutter.  

Maxwell looked surprised and then smiled. “Come in, we were just thinking about dinner.” 

“Good!  I thought you might be,” said the Major, lifting one bag slightly to indicate that its contents were relevant.  “I happen to be an outstanding chef,” said Kepler.  “I learned from Jacques Pépin when I was on mission in France, and Mario Batali in New York.” He entered the apartment, stepping over the mess of tools and blankets and mechanical odds and ends on the floor.

Jacobi's kitchen clearly left a lot to be desired: Kepler gave it all a critical look.  Jacobi’s spice rack had grenades in it. His fridge was stocked with leftover anchovy pizza, orange juice, string cheese, a mason jar with homemade HMX (labeled with duct tape) and pitchers of likewise homemade and labeled napalm and nitroglycerin. Jacobi was far from a chef himself.  Maxwell was even worse.  Jacobi’s ability to scramble eggs, grill cheese, and boil water seemed to mystify her.  He owned salt, which Maxwell did not.  But somehow Kepler turned the kitchen into something functional.

“Ready for something better than hospital food?” he asked setting up.  

“Hell yes,” Jacobi answered.

“Better than Pop Tarts, too, Dr. Maxwell,” Kepler informed her.  He washed down Jacobi’s counters with a sponge he’d brought out from the depths of a bag.  

“We’ll see,” Maxwell joked.  Jacobi noticed she was far more at ease around Kepler than she had been just a week ago.  He didn’t know what happened between the two of them, but something had changed.  They’d gotten closer.  

Kepler began setting out ingredients.  Olive oil, onion, celery, carrot, ground meat – pork and veal and beef – tomato paste, a bottle of white wine, parsley.  “Do you have salt and pepper?” asked Kepler. 

“Uh, yeah, in the cabinet next to the grenade rack,” Jacobi answered, watching in amazement.  

“Grenade rack,” snorted Kepler.  He put the salt and pepper out on the counter too.  He crossed to Jacobi’s fridge and checked the contents.  “No parmesan?” 

“Uh, no.  Just mozzarella,” Jacobi said. 

“I’m a little surprised. Pasta?”

“I don’t have pasta,” Jacobi said. 

Kepler was already removing the box from one of the grocery bag, “I didn’t think so.  Well, sit tight and in an hour and some change you’ll have the best bolognese you’ve ever tasted.” 

“I have no idea if I’ve ever tasted bolognese,” Maxwell said. 

Kepler looked sadly at her, “Don’t say that, Maxwell, you’re going to break my heart.” 

“Sorry,” she said. 

“Have I ever told you two about the time I worked as a chef for some loggers in the Great North Woods?” he asked.  

“No, sir,” Jacobi said. 

“Nope,” Maxwell answered. 

“Well, I was deep undercover in Maine trying to flush out a scientist hiding out off the grid…” 

Every so often Jacobi and Maxwell would interject a comment and Kepler would laugh or clarify.  A few “hey now!”s of mock offense.  For the first time in a week, Jacobi forgot about the carbon and metal attached to his arm and the titanium implanted deep in his bone.  He felt normal again.  Better than normal.  He felt warm and loved.

“Long story short, it turned out to be Stephen King!” Kepler said.  Jacobi and Maxwell burst into laughter.  “And soup’s up!”

Dinner that night was among the best Jacobi had ever had.  The three of them just talked. It was the closest, the friendliest, the most  _ human  _ Kepler had ever been and Jacobi suspected he would  ever be.  Kepler left late, urging them to get some sleep since they had work tomorrow and Cutter himself would come to check up on Jacobi.  

In the present, Jacobi checked his phone. It showed the timer down to the millisecond. Three minutes.

“Macallan –” 

“Already made the call. Meet me at the side entrance with Zero-One,” Kepler’s voice answered over the earpiece.  Jacobi saw Kepler disconnect from the crowd, just another face, a man no one would remember.  Maybe they chatted with him briefly.  Maybe they thought they’d seen him at another party or convention somewhere.  Wasn’t he at that meeting in San Francisco?  Or was it Seattle?  No one would ever mention him.  “Wait for her.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Jacobi, he always would.   

They couldn’t leave too early. They certainly couldn’t leave too late. They had to be gone by the 30-second mark.  Jacobi grabbed a couple more appetizers he knew Maxwell had missed and ate one while very discreetly shoving the other into the napkin pouch in his pocket.

He heard Maxwell’s heels on the hardwood floor.  He turned and saw her with her long dress up around her knees.  He held back a laugh.  

“Shut up!” she hissed as she stopped beside him. 

“Did I say anything?” Jacobi asked. 

“You were  _ thinking  _ something!” She dusted off her dress and let it down.

“Just wondering if you dropped your glass slipper yet.” 

“I told you not to say anything!” 

“I couldn’t help it!” 

“What's the time?”

“Two minutes and some change,” Jacobi answered in an undertone without checking the timer.

She nodded. “Enough time to at least try the champagne.” She took his glass from him and without considering the shimmering liquid she took the last long sip, almost a gulp.  “Huh.  That’s really good.” 

“I’ve had better,” Jacobi said. 

“Oh bullshit,” Maxwell smirked.

“Hey, you don't know, it was before I met you.” 

“I guess that’s possible,” admitted Maxwell.  

But if she was anything like him, she, too, often forgot they had only known each other a year and a half.  It felt like they’d known each other forever.  They were best friends.  They were partners.  They were inseparable to the last.  Jacobi wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Okay. I'm ready,” she said, passing him the glass.  Jacobi nodded.  He deposited it on a passing tray headed toward the kitchen.  

Without a word they moved as a unit. Quickly. Not quite quietly thanks to Maxwell's damn shoes. But nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Maybe they were a couple leaving early.  They were invisible in the crowd of well-dressed partygoers. In the hall Maxwell's ankle gave and she let out a low growl. Mid-stride she tugged off one shoe.

“We can't stop,” Jacobi muttered as she stalled to take off the other shoe.  

“I know!” Maxwell said.  “But I can’t do  _ anything _ in these...these Hell-shoes!  Here!” She thrust them into his hands and picked up her dress again.  “We’re blowing these up when we get back!” 

“Sounds like fun.”  He took the shoes. They were able to move more quickly and they avoided the places security was stationed as instructed by Kepler over their earpieces.  They had a minute when they made it to the door.  Maxwell immediately got them through the security system.

30 seconds.

20 seconds when they got into the car and Kepler gestured to the SI-1 agent who slammed on the gas. Just as they got past the gate, the ground shook. The air was shattered by the  _ boom! _  Behind them a fireball burst skyward. Half the mansion went up.  

“How was your evening, kids?” Kepler asked sipping from a flute of champagne he’d kept. 

“ _ Ugh,” _ Maxwell responded. She was already pulling out the bobby-pins. Her hair was beginning to curl again, as stubborn as its owner. 

Jacobi tossed her shoes across the car.  He probed his pocket and produced a wrapped oyster.  He passed it to Maxwell.  “Here.” 

Maxwell ate it without dignity. “Did you try them, Major?”

“I had my eyes on your locations all night,” he said brandishing his GPS as a reminder. 

“Want some pocket food?” Jacobi asked, knowing the answer.  He ate a caviar/créme fraîche tartlet, slightly smooshed from traveling in his jacket.  

“Absolutely not.” 

Maxwell reached into Jacobi’s pocket and produced a piece of shrimp toast.  “It’s still good,” Maxwell promised him, holding the toast out to him, leaning across the seat and Jacobi.  

“I assure you, Maxwell, I am fine,” said Kepler taking out his earpiece. 

Jacobi undid his bow tie and sighed. Maxwell popped the shrimp toast into her mouth, then continued to scavenge food from his pocket, her hair falling around her oval face.  

“Dr. Maxwell?” said Kepler holding out his hand.  

“Do you want some salmon cake or do you want the drive with Baker’s files on it?” Maxwell asked. 

“I believe you know the answer to that,” Kepler said. 

Maxwell, with a smirk, passed off both.  Kepler sighed, but, while they both watched, ate the little piece of cake.  Chewing thoughtfully, he scrolled through the files on his own tablet.   

“And his Cloud was wiped clean,” Maxwell said.  

A nod.   “You two did well,” Kepler said, that small smile returning.  

“Thank you, sir,” said Jacobi undoing his cufflinks.  

“You owe us,” Maxwell said.  

“I took you someplace nice and this is the thanks I get?” Kepler smirked.  


	4. Epilogue

Maxwell’s hair was a mess.  The party was long over and Jacobi and Maxwell were back at Goddard Futuristics.  Jacobi hadn’t changed out of his tux.  Maxwell had all but ripped her dress off and was back in a t-shirt and shorts.  But she hadn’t washed the spray and gel out of her hair, which kept it stiff; but without the bobbie pins and clip, which Maxwell had removed back in the limo, it stuck up and out in a manner that would embarrass a 1980s punk.  Jacobi had ditched his jacket, cufflinks, and bow tie.  Maxwell was back in her sneakers, or, rather, she  _ had _ been wearing them.  Right now she was in her socks, allowing her ailing feet a rest after the night in Hell Shoes (as she would always think of them from now on).  

They were out on one of the  ballistics ranges, not far from Goddard’s central compound.  Maxwell stood behind the protective wall at the far end, the wall behind which Jacobi and he coworkers watched their creations explode.  Maxwell watched through binoculars as Jacobi prepared their targets.  He put them on top of a pair of C-4 blocks and almost daintily placed two sticks of dynamite inside.  He sprinkled some black powder inside and on top for good measure.  Jacobi inserted the fuses and gave Maxwell a thumbs up.  She returned it with a smile. Then  Jacobi jogged back to where Maxwell was waiting.  ever before, in her entire life, had Maxwell been so excited about an explosion.  She wondered if this anticipation was what Jacobi usually felt.  

“Ready?” Jacobi asked, grinning, and putting on his battered ear protection.  

“So ready,” Maxwell assured him.  

“Put on your ear protection,” Jacobi instructed her, removing the remote detonator from his pocket and twisting the knob to its proper position.  

“Right, of course,” Maxwell said, obeying.  She was getting a little ahead of herself.  Jacobi counted down on his hand, CRE numbers.  5, an opened palm.  4, all but the thumb.  3, middle, pointer, thumb.  2, middle and pointer.  When he got to one, just the pointer finger, he tipped his hand so that he pointed at the targets in the middle of the field, drawing Maxwell’s attention there.  Maxwell put the binoculars back to her eyes.  Jacobi waited for her to do so before pressing the detonator.  

_ Boom! _

A silent (thanks to the ear protection) burst of flame and smoke and bright red and orange light.  

The Hell Shoes were blown into thousands of tiny black pieces and a cloud of ash.  When the debris settled, there was nothing left but a black ring, the shadow of the blast.  Both Maxwell and Jacobi laughed.  Jacobi crowed with delight.  “Take  _ that _ , you stupid shoes!” Maxwell said.  

Maxwell lowered her binoculars and, without looking at him, met Jacobi’s hand for a high five. 


End file.
